We are Home

It always seems to rain on Thursday. “Rain, rain, go away…” It doesn’t work on Thursday. Although not here to ask, I believe my brother would have liked Thursdays. As a baby, he would never have cried on Thursdays. As an adult, it would be his day off. A day of rest. Peace and quiet. For everyone.

Last night I had a dream about giant snub-nosed frogs with ruby underbellies. Christmas-coloured and long-legged, they made their home in massive underground burrows, just below the earth’s skin. They slept most days, but Thursday’s rain opened their blue and purple lids and awakened their senses. Our stone walls couldn’t keep them out, our houses weren’t safe. Every Thursday we would lock ourselves (mother, father, sister, brother, sister) in our storm cellar, old, ignored, and forgotten; made long ago by relatives. Old. Ignored. And forgotten.

And with the sound of Thursday’s rain in our ears, we waited to become long-legged and Christmas-coloured. To become the same as those who hunted us. Together, just below the earth’s skin, listening to a baby’s treasured silence, an adult’s somber sleep. A day of rest. Peace and quiet. For everyone.